


Stock-Standard, Expected, but Still Catastrophic

by juniron



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: (for part 1 at least), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU), Blood and Injury, Day 3, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Robin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Gun Violence, Hopefully it isn't too ooc, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Protective Bruce Wayne, Whump, Whumptober 2020, mentioned Wally West - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26807641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniron/pseuds/juniron
Summary: Sickening parallels seemed to be a part of Bruce’s life, because he was seeing the same scene from when he’d been eight and powerless, watching someone he (even if he had a hard time saying it) loved, eyes full of fear as they stared down the barrel of a gun, completely at the mercy of another.-----Prompt: Held at Gunpoint
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950706
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Stock-Standard, Expected, but Still Catastrophic

**Prompt** **:** ~~**Manhandled** **|** **Forced to their Knees** ~~ **~~|~~ Held at Gunpoint**

Guns. Bruce had never been a big fan of them… for  _ obvious _ reasons. But they were something he had to deal with as Batman on a daily (more nightly than daily) basis. 

Eventually, bullets whirring past his face and near encounters with every type of ammunition this side of the sun became expected, just another part of the job. 

But then Dick had come into his life, learned his secret, and had taken up his own mask and cape to become Robin. And damn, he complicated a lot. He’d been flying across the rooftops of Gotham City for the past two years, following Batman into every drug bust, gang war, and supervillain fight Bruce involved himself in. Wherever Batman went, Robin followed.

He’d initially taken him in by pity and an empathetic part of his heart that knew just how Dick had felt that fateful night. They felt like sick mirrored situations, Bruce’s misfortune turning back around and happening to this other child, another helpless little boy, orphaned too young. He wouldn’t let Dick grow up alone and scared. He’d made him Robin to make sure he didn’t end up a vengeful mess like so many others did. He would try to be there, never a replacement for what Dick had lost, but… there.

Sickening parallels seemed to be a part of Bruce’s life, though, because he was seeing the same scene from when he’d been eight and powerless, watching someone he (even if he had a hard time saying it) loved, eyes full of fear as they stared down the barrel of a gun, completely at the mercy of another.

Every bone and muscle in Bruce’s body froze. He stood there, petrified in place. It was almost as if time had stopped, the only indication that it hadn’t being the sharp, stuttering breaths Dick managed to get in as he grasped at his newly fractured wrist and the slightly trembling hands of the criminal as the gun’s intricate metal bits clicked from being jostled.

It wasn’t as if either of them hadn’t dealt with firearms before. They were common and trained for, but deadly nonetheless. Evasive maneuvers, Kevlar, and disciplined routines could only take you so far. Bullets didn’t care about the countless hours you’d spent learning to avoid and handle them  _ before _ they became issues. They were tools. Weapons. And often in the hands of those with malicious intent. Guns turned the average man into a danger. They were unpredictable and added more branches to the never ending tree of contingencies. 

For a brief moment, Bruce allowed the pained child in him to take over. Fear was powerful, a lesson he’d learned the hard way. But now wasn’t the time to be vulnerable, it was the time to act. 

They’d dealt with a majority of the criminals already. A stock-standard robbery with a handful of men. Nothing either wouldn’t have been able to handle on their own on a typical night. But humans make mistakes, and there was always margin for error in their line of work. Dick had made some eye-roll-worthy joke about how robbing from a jewelry store was the first crime you perfected at criminal community college, to which he received the stock-standard ‘it’s Batman and Robin. Take em’ down!’ and a stock-standard fight had ensued. 

Batman and Robin had held the clear upper hand, easily detaining six of the eight thugs. A punch here, a kick there, with the occasional evasive flip sprinkled in. It’d come down to two versus two and Robin leapt over a parked car to try and take one down from above. All contingencies were thrown to the wind as he wound up to strike. Little did he know that the wind would blow back.

The thug extended a hand, catching Robin’s arm in a steel-like grip and dangling him in the air. He lashed out a kick at the man, successfully connecting with his jaw and causing a grunt to escape his scowling lips. 

“It’s time the little bird has his wings clipped,” he growled, squeezing and tightening his hold on Robin’s slender wrist. The pressure that normally would have left a bruise quickly morphed into a force equivalent of what felt like a hydraulic press. A meta-human.

Bones shattered like brittle pasta as Robin let out a cry of anguish, writhing up and then going slack in the criminal’s grasp. Batman had watched the scene unfurl and seethed with rage. Even without any true meta abilities, the Dark Knight could pack a punch. Batman was relentless, using an arsenal of explosive gadgets and well-timed physical blows to incapacitate the thug, causing Robin to fall from his hold, crumpling on the ground near the car he’d leapt over moments ago.

One man left. One normal man. A normal man, Batman had noticed, who was currently holding his  ~~ward~~ son hostage with a handgun at point-blank range.

Images of that fateful night in the alley flashed in his mind while time sluggishly rolled on around him. Another man, another gun, and another disaster waiting to happen.

“Drop the gun,” Batman growled, his voice terrifyingly deep and gravelly. A threat.

The criminal whipped his face around and locking into a stare towards cold unfeeling eyes beneath the cowl. He tried to maintain composure, to appear threatening, but under the glare and shadowy silhouette of the Batman, that composure began to crumble. His hands shook, causing the gun to make more rattling noises, putting both on edge.

“Back off! I never even wanted to do this. We were going to lose the house,” the man continued to tremble, still aiming the barrel of the gun towards Robin’s listless form. “I’ve got a family… please. I-I can’t get busted for this. They’ll have nowhere to go!”

A small fleeting bit of empathy tugged at Batman’s heart. The keyword being fleeting. The man’s words were genuine, he could tell by the tone, the desperation. Crime was enticing, and many in Gotham genuinely didn’t have any other options. But then his eyes shifted back to the gun. The gun that was pointed at his helpless child.

“Drop the gun and we’ll talk this through,” Batman’s voice held the same gravelly depth, but was an obvious extension of an olive branch. The man’s hands continued to shake, and the gun wobbled precariously.  _ Just drop the damn gun,  _ Batman internally pleaded.

Batman took a calculated step towards the man. It was a miscalculation.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The man’s eyes flew open in a panicked fury, seeing the advance as another threat. Trembling fingers twitched. They pulled the trigger. 

A guttural roar erupted from the Dark Knight’s throat, body lunging at the man in a blind rage and tackling him to the ground before he had the chance to take another shot at either of them. The gun soared from his hand and clattered onto the pavement several feet away.

“You bastard!” he yelled, landing several blows on the man’s face. Criminal skull met concrete punch after punch, blood pooling slowly behind his head and dribbling across his face from a split lip and freshly shattered septum. After a fifth blow, the man had been knocked out, and Batman had to take a precious second to refrain from senselessly beating the man to a pulp.

That precious second of cathartic relief was interrupted by a high-pitched, crackly wheeze. Batman’s gaze shot towards his protege, shivering in a heap on the ground, gloved hands slowly growing covered in a thick, crimson liquid.  _ Shit. _

“Nngh, B,” Robin groaned as his hands scrambled across his side, feebly attempting to apply pressure to his own wound. “I-I.”

“Stop. You’re making it worse. Just concentrate on breathing. Don’t fall asleep,” Batman’s voice was cold and deliberate. Neutral on purpose to quell the fear in the boy’s mind, but his own. He pressed against the bullet wound on Robin’s side, causing more blood to escape and eliciting a pained whine from the boy and forcing him to writhe under the weight of Batman’s arm. He pressed a button on the commlink in his ear, “Alfred, we have a gunshot wound. Lower right side of the abdomen. I haven’t staunched the blood flow yet. I need you to send in the car remotely. I can’t carry him like this.”

“I-I’m sorry, B. I s-should’ve been b-better. I should’ve k-known he wasn’t a n-normal guy. H-he just… I j-just,” Robin stumbled through his sentences as his brain rushed to blame himself and apologize for a les-than-stellar patrol, wanting to appeal to his mentor. Without permission, from a hellish mix of pain, anger, frustration, and fear, tears escaped his eyes, leaking out through the sides of the domino mask.

It was at that moment that Batman realized that  _ Dick _ needed him right now. Not as Batman, though. As his father. 

Even with the white lenses of the mask obscuring the view of Dick’s eyes, it was clear that the baby blue orbs were screaming vulnerability and a want to be comforted. He was eleven, for God’s sake. Eleven, clad in a caped, red Kevlar costume with a grown man dressed as a bat putting pressure on a wound so he didn’t bleed out onto the sidewalk and die. 

His mother had always told him life was full of strange but beautiful things. She wasn’t wrong. Would he be seeing her soon? Would he get to be with his parents again?

Dick’s teary, hurt-filled eyes stared back at his guardian, now holding the unspoken question:  _ ‘am I gonna die?’ _

Bruce’s determined yet fearful stare said nothing in return.

An extremely tense, uncomfortable silence fell over the dynamic duo. The only sound occupying the night air being Dick’s shallow pants as he struggled against the burning agony of his side and wrist, and the ebb of unconsciousness. The boy was stilling, and Bruce grew weary. 

“Hey, chum, don’t fall asleep, remember? I-“ Bruce was trying to find words to fill the emptiness between them, taking one hand off the wound to tap Dick’s paling cheek.

“Y-yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I-I wasn’t good enough. I’m s-sorry.”

“Don’t say that, Dick.”

Dick’s eyes widened under the mask, attempting to sit up, causing a bright flare of pain and a strained whimper as he whisper shouted, “names, B!”

“We’re fine. Nobody’ll hear. Just… talk to me, chum, and don’t fall asleep.”  _ Why the hell isn’t the Batmobile here yet?  _ Bruce’s concern morphing into a trademark awkward conversation with his son.

“Well… W-Wally and I were supposed t-to go see this s-s-stupid zombie movie next w-week. I-I think he has a crush on the lead actress…” Dick let out a weak chuckle, face immediately curling into a grimace from aggravating the gunshot wound again.

“PG-13?”

Dick gave Bruce a weak smile, one that he returned. Nothing in a fantastical, dystopian zombie film could show anything more violent or vulgar than he hadn’t already seen on patrol. It was nice to have Bruce humor him.

“Yeah… I-I think. Might hafta reschedule? I hope he’s not upset.”

“He won’t be. You can always watch it at the manor.”

“W-we get it, old man, you’re rich…” Dick trailed off, mumbling quietly to himself, eyelids drooping dangerously.

“No! C’mon don’t close your eyes. Just hang on.” No response. “Dick!”

A small, gloved hand wormed its way on top of Bruce’s own, giving a nearly unnoticeable squeeze. 

“Tată…”

Dick’s hand went slack.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be writing a second part that gives us a fluffy ending with some Bruce and Dick bonding... so if you're into that happy shit, stay tuned.


End file.
